Contingency
by valalight
Summary: Following the events of the Twi-wizard tournament, an unexpected reaction to Voldemort's Return has occurred. Lily is brought back from the dead.
1. Awakening

Authors Note: Hello and thank you for clicking on this little story. The idea around it wasn't inspired by some big thing, just a gradual desire to see the interactions between Harry and Lily in a more in depth way then the brief view we saw in Deathly Hollows. Their will not be any shipping in this fic. I don't think it will fit with it and i just plain am incapable of writing anything even remotely romantic. Be warned, I do write in first person, and i do tend to go a little over board with the emotions.

A big thanks to Phonetically Write for editing this chapter and dealing with my rambling and stupid ideas o_o

please review and give you honest opinion. I also would LOVE to know your ideas about what you want to have happen next.

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><p><strong>[-c.o.n.t.i.n.g.e.n.c.y-]<strong>

**[Chapter One]: -Awakening-  
><strong>

The first thing I was aware of was the smell of mildew and dust. My eyes were sealed shut from what I could only assume was a heavy layer of sleep, and my body seemed unable to move. I couldn't think clearly, and I couldn't understand why. My mind didn't seem to be fully there. Only clouds and swirls of slight conscious drifted through my thoughts. And yet, through the confusion and disorientation, I knew something was terribly wrong.

With a jolt, I bolted upright, gasping in air as if it were the most precious substance on Earth. My eyes opened wide, but my vision was still uncontrollably blurry. I could only make out shadows. A cold chill ran through the room I occupied. With a shiver, the thought of how wrong this all was took over me. I did not know what was happening, but I knew it was not right.

Within a few blinks and rubs, my vision finely came back to what it was supposed to be. With a gasp, I realized where I was: A nursery; Harry's nursery. With that thought came the memories of what had transpired.

"Harry!" my voice was hoarse and my throat felt dry, but none of my physical discomfort seemed to matter anymore. All that mattered was the little boy who should have been in the crib I sat next to. The crib, I found as I inspected it, was cover in dust, debris, and water stains.

What happened?

Where was my boy?  
>My precious, precious baby.<p>

"He" had come. Voldemort had somehow broken through our defenses and attacked. The memories rushed over me. He had come suddenly, and with out warning. James and I were enjoying a cup of tea before bed, when he came crashing through the door. There was confusion, and James told me to flee with Harry as he fought The Dark Lord off. I ran up the stairs to our son, in his nursery. I couldn't see what was happening below, but I remember hearing the curse and horrible, heartbreaking sound of my husband's lifeless form hitting the floor.  
>I barricaded the door with whatever I could and then turned to my boy. He was crying from confusion, his sweet face stained with his tears.<br>"Harry, be safe. Be strong. " I whispered to him. He looked at me in confusion, not yet at the age he could understand the gravity of the situation.  
>"Mama loves you. Dada loves you." I had to be strong. I couldn't let myself break now.<br>"You are so loved, Harry. So loved." Before I knew it, the door had blasted open.  
>I remember standing before the evil man as he ordered me away from my son, but I wouldn't move. I couldn't let him have Harry. Harry had to live.<br>I remember, in my panic to protect my son, that an ancient ritual crossed my mind – one that would protect my boy. One that would keep him safe.  
>I came across it in my 7th year, while searching through a pile of ancient, dust-covered tomes.<p>

_"It is all in the intent. Neither an incantation, nor any combination of potions, may recreate it. For the total protection to be placed on a subject, the caster has to have the full intent to willingly sacrifice himself or herself in place of the subject. It is all in the intent."_

In my panic, I could only hope that such protection would be given to my son.

Before I knew it, there was nothingness.  
>No light, no tunnel, just a blank and endless nothing. And then waking up in this room.<p>

Where was he? Where was Voldemort, and most importantly, where was my Harry?  
>"Harry!" I called out in desperation, standing up from the ruined flood I sat upon. The room was in disarray. The wall facing the outside was shattered and in pieces. Outside, I could see the street illuminated by the moon and stars overhead.<br>"James…" my voice was barely more than a whisper. I knew my James was gone. With that thought, a pain shot through me, my eyes stung as hot tears flooded them, and my throat seemed to tighten to the point I couldn't breath.

"No."  
>This was wrong. This was all wrong. This couldn't have happened. My James couldn't be dead, my harry he couldn't…<p>

A thought struck me. Why was I here? Wasn't I dead? I could have sworn that I was. I know that I heard the evil curse leave the dark lords lips. So why was I here?

I stumbled out of the room, tripping over a piece of board that had fallen from the ceiling.  
>"Harry!" I called out my son's name again, hoping to hear his cry.<br>As I walked down the hallway, I could barely recognize my home. What sort of curse could do this? To completely destroy my home, but leave me untouched.  
>The stairs creaked and broke in a few places as I walked down them. If only I had my wand with me, I could fix them and make them safer to walk on.<br>When I reached the outside, I gasped at the state of the yard. The grass and weeds overtook the lawn, it looked as if it had been unkempt for more then a decade.  
>"Hello?" I called out when I reached the street. A warm breezed brushed past me.<br>The weather was wrong.  
>I had put the cat out mere moments before the attack, and I distinctly remembering how chilly it was for a autumn night.<br>But the temperature now was warm and inviting. Late spring, if I had the guess. The trees were full of leaves and the scent of the flowers from gardens still lingered in the air.  
>My stomach clinched in anxiety.<br>I had to find help. I made my way down the street to where I knew Old Bathilda Bagshot lived.  
>She was the closest witch that I trusted. I knew that, with her, I could find some answers. She may have been slowly losing herself in her old age, but she always had an answer or two on hand.<p>

As I walked down the street, little changes caught my eye. The model of the automobiles in the Muggles' homes, for one; there makes were different from what I was use to seeing. A previously open lawn was now fenced in. Little things like this made my stomach twist in knots.  
>As I made my way to the center of the Town Square, the old world-war memorial caught my eye. I had seen it before, just a simple stone with the carved names of the dead, but now... It was different. As I got close I gasped in horror. The stone was now charmed. It melted and twisted in to a new shape, one that left tears in my eyes.<br>Standing before me was a stone rendering of my family. James and me, little Harry looking content in my arms.  
>I couldn't breath. Couldn't think. All I could do was stare at the memorial dedicated to my family.<br>I knew what it meant. Even if I couldn't understand why, I knew it meant that we had died. That I had died. That the tides of the war had somehow changed the night Voldemort attacked and killed us.  
>That for some ungodly reason, we were considered heroes.<br>Bile rose in the back of my throat, my stomach clinching and refusing to accept this new truth.  
>I hurried over to a trash bin before I emptied my gut. Tears stung my eyes, not out of force of sickness but out of the sheer amount of unacceptable, unimaginable information I had just taken in.<br>As I leaned against the bin, my head hanging low and sobbing, a newspaper caught my eye. The first thing that struck me was the date. "June 24", it read, "1995".  
>I gasped in shock. It was 14 years later than it should have been. Somehow, though, it all made sense. The ruin my house was in, the state of the neighborhood; it made sense.<br>I picked up the paper and unfolded it to see the cover story.  
>My heart stopped beating, my lungs refused to take in breath. There before me was my boy. My Harry. He stood alongside three others in the photo. The title above the picture read as follows: "<em>Harry Potter Competes in Last Task; Will Other Competitors Defeat The Boy Who Lived?"<em>


	2. Bathilda

Authors Note: Thank you so much for the the faves, alerts, and reviews. I'm really glad you are enjoying this little story of mine. I have a general idea of how this story will progress, but I'm always open to new ideas, don't be afraid to share.

Yet again Thank you Phonetically Write for editing and giving me new ideas, Your the best.

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><p><strong>[-c.o.n.t.i.n.g.e.n.c.y-]<strong>

**[Chapter Two]: -Bathilda-**

I found myself mesmerized by the image before me. It was a simple one; it was showing off what I could only assume were the competitors of the Triwizard Tournament, all lined up. There were four youths; a beautiful young girl with long, light-colored hair framing her face, followed by two strapping lads who both looked far too confident. None of these three mattered to me; the one who set my heart on fire was the one who looked exactly like James, his hair was messy and sticking up in every direction. His chin and nose were the same as my husband's. Though I could not see for certain, for the photograph was not in color, I knew his eyes were the same as mine. I knew he was my Harry. His face showed his inexperience and youth in comparison to the three others. He was, by far, the shortest amongst them. His gaze shifted from side to side, looking at someone not in the picture, to the three he stood next to. He looked uneasy.  
>I wondered how he had gotten himself in that position. He obviously did not want to be amongst the competitors, but there he was.<p>

He looked exactly as I had imagined him, so many months – no, years – ago, when he was still a baby. I would dream of him, standing there alongside us, looking happy. Content. Looking so much like his father, but with little traces of me sprinkled about. Then there he was, my baby; grown, on the brink of adulthood.

'The-boy-who-lived' is what the article called him. I could only assume the meaning behind it. He had survived, where no others before him had. On the night that Voldemort attacked us, Harry had lived.

I found myself crying, now; not out of fear or confusion, but out of happiness. Our boy had lived. He had made it. I was able to save him. James' sacrifice was not in vain.  
>My train of thought was brought to an abrupt halt by the slamming of a door somewhere to my left. I looked up to where a row of cottages stood, to find a young lady standing on the porch of one, looking quite agitated.<br>"Sarah, come back inside!" I heard an older female yell from within the home. The young woman spun in place to face the door and screamed back inside, "No mother! Not until you admit your wrong!"

As I watched the scene before me, I realized who this young woman was. She was Sarah Philips. The last time I had seen her, she was a rambunctious two-year-old. The Philips' were a Muggle family, who were always very kind to James and me. The mother, Mary, was expecting another child around the same time I was pregnant with Harry. We were going to set up play dates between them. I remember joking with Mary, about how our boys would be best friends.

As I watched Sarah go through her teenage tantrum, I realized that the future I had once envisioned was now gone. There would be no play dates between our boys. There would be no ghost stories told by James to a squealing little Harry, far past his bedtime. There would be no house full of little Potters.  
>James was gone; and with him, so was the life I had imagined.<p>

Not only was my husband gone, but my baby was already grown. He would be 14 now. A teenager, only 7 years younger then I was. I had missed out on my boy's life. The birthdays; shopping for his first wand; sending him off to Hogwarts. He had grown up without us. Hopefully, he had been living a happy life. A life where the thought of his deceased parents probably didn't even cross his mind much.

I moved from the place near the trash bin, and continued on down the road to where Bathilda lived. Her house was much the same as the one in which I lived. As I first caught sight of it, it looked the same as when I had last seen it; I could see lights on, within her home, and smoke coming from the chimney. Thank Merlin she was home. I don't know what I would have done, otherwise.  
>I knocked on her door, lightly at first. Some part of me was scared to confront my old friend. I was supposed to be dead. How would Bathilda take seeing me, very much alive, in front of her?<br>"Coming, coming!" I heard her muffled voice say, from somewhere within.  
>She opened the door and, just like her home, she looked very much the same as when I last lay eyes upon her.<br>"Yes?" She said, when first saw me "And what would you like, Miss Evens?"  
>She didn't even flinch at my sudden appearance.<br>"I told you before, Bathilda. I married James. My last names Potter now." It was like nothing had changed - as if we were as we had always been; ex-student and professor, now good friends. After my words, Bathilda took a second glance at me.  
>"Wait..." she said it in a low voice, a look of confusion on her face. It seemed she finally realized that her old pupil should not be standing before her.<br>"Lily Potter should not be standing on my doorstep." She seemed to be talking more to herself then to me.  
>"You died." Her gaze changed to meet my eyes.<br>"Yes." I said, my voice soft and distant, "I don't know why I'm here, and I don't know how."

She continued to stare at me for what seemed like ten minutes, taking in every detail of my being.  
>"Well, no use standing outside, come in." She moved out of the way to allow me passage.<br>"Thank you," I breathed out my gratitude as I passed her, into her home.  
>She led me in to her sitting room that I was surprised to find had, in the past fourteen years, changed very little.<br>I sat down on the couch opposing the chair she settled herself in.  
>"If this is some trick, I will be rather unhappy. I was always fond you Lily, and to find this a hoax will leave me quite displeased," she said, in her raspy voice.<br>"This isn't a trick Mrs. Bagshot, it's really me." I smiled at my old professor.  
>"Well, then. You have some explaining young lady," she said, settling further into her cushioned chair. Her face was stern, as if she still didn't quite believe what I was saying.<p>

And so I told my story; what I knew, and the parts I put together. My eyes watered during a few parts, but I didn't let myself cry. I would let myself grieve, but now was not the time. When I was done explaining, a silence fell upon the room. Neither of us spoke; there was only the sound of our breathing and the crackling of the fire.

"Interesting, indeed. I must say, when I first realized who was on my doorstep, I thought it some dark magic that was reanimating the dead. You are clearly no Inferius, though. Those rotten corpses have no light. And light, Lily, is one thing that you have in abundance." She spoke at last.  
>"You've assumed correctly, for the most part. It's been fourteen years. There has been no war. That boy, from what I understand, grew up with his Muggle family. Your sister, I believe." Her words surprised me. It wasn't that I didn't trust my sister with the care of my son. Rather, it was that James and I had agreed that, should anything happen, Harry's godfather, Sirius, should take custody.<br>"Petunia? But what about Sirius?" I knew that he loved Harry and wouldn't give up the chance to raise him.  
>"Did anything happen to him? He was supposed to raise him. Is Sirius-" I couldn't finish my question. The thought of Sirius being dead, as well, just broke my heart.<br>At the mention of his name, Bathilda closed her eyes and took in a long breath.  
>"That man doesn't deserve to lay eyes on young Harry, let alone raise him." Her words were shocking.<br>"This may come as quite an unpleasant shock, Lily, dear, but Sirius was responsible for betraying your location to the Dark Lord."  
>"That's not right, Bathilda. Sirius wasn't our secret keeper. He couldn't give away our location." Bathilda looked shocked at my words, just as I was shocked at hers.<br>"No, that cant be right. He betrayed you, then went after poor little Peter. Killed him, he did, along with a bunch of Muggles."  
>"No. Sirius would never betray James. Never. As for Peter, he was our secret keeper. If anyone could have given our location to the Dark Lord, it would-" I stopped my words as I realized what I was saying. Peter, betray us? Impossible. Somehow, though, the Dark Lord did find us. He got through the charm, and the only way one could do that...<br>No. Not Peter. Please, don't let it be true that he would betray us.  
>"Was Peter's body recovered?" I asked, my voice low.<br>"No. Only a finger was left of him, after Sirius had his way. They caught him, thank Merlin, and locked him up. He escaped just over a year ago, I'm sad to say."  
>I was silent as I took the new information in.<br>"Bathilda, could I send a letter to Albus?" I asked the elderly women before me. I had to talk to Dumbledore. He would have the answers I needed. More importantly, he could get me in contact with Harry.


End file.
